


Vices

by FranklyMrShankly



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Addiction, Depression, M/M, Needles, Self Harm, Substance Abuse, Violence, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FranklyMrShankly/pseuds/FranklyMrShankly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Try to be living as your vice, and can you be my type? </p><p>One of them is addicted to pain and art, the other is addicted to nothingness. The emptiness isn't as obvious as the absurd purity that they are each other's vices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Deep, even breaths. Thats all I needed to focus on right now. I leaned against a brick wall and lit a cigarette, feeling the way it burned my lungs as it had a thousand times before. This wasn’t impossible. This wasn’t unrealistic. I was in complete control. 

The yellow lamplight cast a halo around itself through the early morning mist and the heat already beginning to rise from the wet pavement. How long had I been there? How much longer could I stand there and wait? Time seemed to make no difference, despite it’s insistence upon droning on. If I just stayed glued to that spot, if I never went back inside, then maybe life would just sail on by me. 

Another sharp inhale and I savored the sound the burning paper made in the quiet. Such a distinct difference from the cacophony going on inside my apartment and in my head. I allowed it to fill the space between my ears and I smiled. There it was. For a moment, I worried that I’d lost it; the inner peace I could pull up out of nowhere had been the only way I’d survived the last decade. I could make myself feel, but that was dangerous. I began to believe my lies when I forced emotions, and that was a risk I could no longer take. 

The fire escape rattled as the window to my third floor walk up was slammed open and four heavy trash bags full of clothes and other non-breakables came down in front of me. A fifth bag was tossed, but it was light and it caught on the rusty handrails, ripping a down pillow and letting the soft feathers rain down around me. They settled in my red hair and fell from the bridge of my nose onto the wet sidewalk. 

So much like snow in this impossible heat. 

I looked up and laughed, feeling almost giddy. My reverie was interrupted by the frustrated growl of my girlfriend, whose head popped out of the window in time to watch me laugh at her struggles. 

The window was closed and in a flurry of curse words and canvas bags she came barreling down the stairs, emerging from the building and brushing by me. “Glad you’re finding this real fucking funny, Gerard,” Lindsey spat at me as she turned on her heel to give me her parting gift: another verbal lashing. 

Oh, and she gave it to me good. And I knew that even though these were my last moments as her boyfriend, I should look penitent; I just didn’t have the energy for it at the moment. My inner peace was enveloping the corners of my mind and my smile was still present and hazy. My lips still puckered around the filter of my smoke and I still enjoyed the sensation of burning leaves in my lungs. 

“Get bent, you piece of shit,” was her final epithet before walking to the end of the alley and putting her hand out for a cab. A few moments passed before the sound of brakes and the opening and slamming of the car doors; the shuffle of plastic sacks. The cab drove off and there was silence externally as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frank's POV.

“I fucking hate needles. Don’t you bring that shit at me, Bob,” I threatened my best friend. Bob had spent the last decade working up from his apprenticeship with body art shops in New York City all in order to open a small shop back home in New Jersey. That was all well and good and I was proud of him, but there was no way in hell I was letting him jab a needle through my face.

“Come on, Frank. You just told us five minutes ago that you think lip rings are sexy as fuck,” Bob said, coming at me with intentions of getting me in the chair. The shop was closed and we had just come by to check out what Bob had managed to accomplish when I’d made my comment. Wrong place, wrong time, I supposed.

“That doesn’t mean you get to break out the needles, motherfucker. Bloodthirsty son of a whore. Jesus fuck.” Before I knew what was happening, there was a strong arm around my waist, lifting me up and back.

“Jesus! Will you put me down!” I called out. I knew from the feathery brush of hair that my captor was Ray Toro, who just laughed and dragged me backwards to sit me down on the piercing chair. Bob had already settled in and gotten ready, forceps in one hand and antiseptic wipe in the other. Well shit.

  
Faster than I would have thought possible, Bob snagged my lip in the clamp and swept the cleanser over the whole area. I struggle against Ray, but when I tried to move my head, the clamp pulled painfully on my lip. I was stuck. The blonde worked quickly; so fast he was that I barely registered his individual actions. When he lined the piece up he paused to look me right in the eye. My heart stopped for a moment as he pushed the jewelry through; a flash of pain overswept by adrenaline rushed through my veins and my world went white for a brief second.

I could barely hear my friends laughing as they finished the job and cleansed the site again. Bob handed me a mirror and clapped my shoulder with a wide hand. I think he asked me a question, but I didn’t comprehend it enough to answer. There was a thin, silver and black ring through my lip and my heart was racing.

Motherfucker.

I liked piercings.

“On the scale of one two ridiculous, how amazing would I look with one in my eyebrow? Can you gauge my ears?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerard's POV

     “What now? Are you forgetting that Lindsey was the one paying rent? When is the last time you sold an idea? There isn’t anyway you can afford the apartment on what you are making as an animator,” Mikey was droning on at me, sitting on my futon and drinking my last beer from the fridge. A Michelob Ultra… who knew how old it was. Probably something Lindsey was into.

     “I’ll figure it out, Mikey. Stop worrying so much. If I lose this place, it won’t have shit to do with you.” I knew that was unfair, really. My brother would always worry for me, it was just the way things worked. If the situation were reversed, however, I probably wouldn’t lose much sleep over it. Mikey, however, didn’t even seem to notice that I’d been rude. He’d had 34 years to learn who I am and how to deal with me.

     I lit a cigarette and walked over to stand by the open window, letting the smoke roll out from my lips and fade into the thick morning air. My little brother had a point, though. I needed to actually get to work. I had notes and a few panels for a comic book that I had been pissing around with. It was no where near ready enough to even think about maybe seeing the light of day ever… but with a little work I could have something workable to show to my publisher. “I have a few things I’m working on. In the meantime, I can always pick up more projects at work or maybe get Chantal to let me have another exhibition. Her clients always buy, and they never question the tag price.”

     “Bad idea, big brother. Are you forgetting that you haven’t spoken to the Euringers for more than six months? Think real hard… the reason will come to you,” Mikey said with eyes full of scorn. What had I done to inspire that look of idiocy from my own brother?

     When I remembered that I got drunk at a Christmas party and made a pass at Chantal’s husband, Jimmy, my eyes widened. “Oh. Yeah. You think she’s still pissed? I was drunk, and that was months ago.”

     “It’s not that you tried to fuck her husband, Gerard. It’s that you told her the next day to lighten up and that you would have been cool if she’d joined you guys. Said it could help them work out the tension in their marriage. You acted like you would have been doing them a favor. In case you’ve not noticed, you’re a flaming asshole.”

     “Am not,” I retorted. “Went to the doctor. Got some antibiotic ointment for the flames. My asshole is just fine, thanks.”

     “Suck a dick.” He threw his empty can at my head.

     “Love to. Know anyone?”

     “Whore.”

     “Prude.”

     “Least I know I’m not going to be homeless at the end of next month,” Mikey said, bringing me back down from brotherly ribbing and into the heart of my issues. Issues I was still thinking about when he announced that he needed to go home to shower and get to work.

     “See ya, Faggatron.” He didn’t say it meanly, but with a warm smile. It had been an affectionate nickname since the first time he saw me with a man. My fluid sexuality reminded him of Transformers.

     “Get lost, you disgusting breeder,” I replied with a smaller measure of warmth. If ever I were to have a genuine emotion, it would probably be for Mikey. Sadly, it was probably one of those “never know until you lose them” situations, and I would more than likely die well in advance of my sibling; my life being lead in sharp contrast to his reliability.

     As the door closed, I turned back to the window, lighting another menthol and resting my head against the cracking paint of the wall, willing myself to disappear into my head again. Knowing I would have to hold out until the liquor stores opened to fully do so.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frank's POV

     "Man. I think you might have a problem," Bob commented as I stood up from the chair, absently handing him a roll of bills as I looked at my latest piercing in the handheld mirror. It had been two weeks since he'd ambushed me with the lip ring, and since then, I'd had my nose and eyebrow done as well, and my ears started on the gauging process. My fear of needles was long gone and I realized that I no longer had to look at the men and women with interesting and beautiful body-mods and lament my cowardice; I could join them. The pain was no longer a reason to abstain, it was an additional reason to indulge. 

     "Thanks for your concern, but I'm all good. Think I'm actually done for now." And I was, which saddened me. I couldn't really see myself with a tongue ring or anything south of my neck pierced. At least not yet. "At least with piercings. Tattoos, now..." 

   My friend barked a laugh. "Christ, Iero. Spread that shit out, okay? Don't fill your entire canvas up before you even hit forty. Besides, tattoos are a different ballgame, okay? If you decide you hate a piercing, you can take it out. Correcting your ink is a much larger bill to fit, you know?"

     He was right, of course and annoyingly. I had just wanted to walk over to the images along the wall and select a few pieces, but now I would take my time. I would plan the usage of my canvas meticulously.

     Excited, I hurried home and turned on my laptop, immediately doing a Google search for local artists. I couldn't just have ink. I needed art. I needed expression and beauty and  _meaning_ wrought onto my flesh. I browsed dozens of Weeblys and Facebook galleries. Other tattoo shops. Society 6. Hours and half a bottle of bourbon later, I was looking through the galleries on two artists pages.

     The woman, a Ms. Ballato, had a really polished and professional page. The images presented were complex and lovely. There was an air of hopefulness in every brush and pen stroke and I immediately purchased a few small canvasses for the walls of my house. The man, however... he was rougher. Not that his lines weren't clean and accurate, but his work had an overwhelming feeling of roughness; not pretty... but beautiful. It was darker and deeper as well, seemingly influenced by horror movies and comic books. The attached Facebook page told me that he was Gerard Way, an animator by profession and an artist by birth. He was the one I wanted to work with. I sent a message to his page and added my phone number and email to the bottom of the note; offering to pay for drawings to be used as tattoos. 

     I bit my lip and closed my laptop. My palms were sweaty and I rubbed them against my jeans, trying to calm myself. Thinking on the tattoos for so long put my mind in a place that was darker than I was used to. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but the potential for pain was another major draw. It made me feel in control and alive, and I didn't know how much longer I could wait to feel that again. 

     I was a goddamned adult, I didn't have to wait, did I?

     I should be patient. Having a work of art pressed into my skin would be worth it. It would. But I had never been about self-denial. My fingernails absently dug into my flesh where the holes in my jeans lay. That was something, and the action became far less absent and more desperate. But it wasn't enough. The pain wasn't sharp, it was constant. Before I knew what I was doing, I was walking toward my bathroom, digging through my drawers and looking for something to make a mark. Not deep... not even scarring. I just wanted that moment of pure release. 

     No razors. I used an electric one and had stopped buying blades long ago. With an exasperated sigh and an itch I couldn't find the means to scratch, I ambled to my bedroom and flipped on the stereo. The music that pumped through the speakers did very little soothe my jangled nerves and I went into my closet to pull out clothes for work the next day. The teeshirt I pulled from a hanger was well worn and the collar ripped as it caught on the plastic. 

     "Fuck." 

     There was a time I would have left it. When I'm playing live shows, ripped clothes don't really bother me. But tomorrow I was working my day job, at a recording studio. My clothes couldn't be ripped to shit. Reaching up to the shelf, I located my sewing kit and brought it to my bed, along with the shirt. Within moments, I had a needle threaded with white cotton thread and I was patching the ripped seam. 

     Nearly done, I leaned over to the iPod attached to the speakers and hit shuffle again. The guitar that came through was familiar. It was a track I had laid down with my old band, and a smile spread across my face. The music was nearly violent; harsh and pumping like a quick fuck. Good memories. Settling back down on the bed, I accidentally closed my hand around the needle and gasped. 

     There is was. That immediate relief. Reaching into my box, I located a needle with a larger gauge made for embroidery. Testing it's sharpness, I pressed it into the fabric of my jeans. The sweat was gone from my palms and the muscles in my back relaxed; this would do until I could get back on Bob's table. Moving my hands and closing my eyes, I drug the needle against the exposed skin on my thigh, the pain was less satisfying and I opened my eyes, surprising myself in my own disappointment. No blood... Had I even wanted there to be? Since when was I into that part of it all?

   A faster, harder movement and the pain was sharp again. A little line of red liquid beaded up to the surface and I watched in fascination as it grew and gathered into a bubble. The fraying ends of the hole in my pants caught the bubble when it became too big, and absorbed the fluid like a wick. Amazing. A few more slashes and a little more blood and I felt oddly sated.

     Shirt disregarded and sewing kit open and spilling, I curled into a ball on top of my sheets and closed my eyes. More relaxed than I had been in days and feeling more in control, I allowed myself to sleep. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerard's POV

     "Not so hard."

     "Shut up," I grunted back. It was a struggle to keep my erection when she spoke. Her voice was nasally; pathetic and without substance. I'd known the girl for less than twenty minutes, and it seemed already that she was the sort that's mouth functioned better when closed. Unless it was opening around my dick.

     I could see in the mirror in front of us that she looked pissed. I shot her a smirk and rammed into her so hard that her knees nearly buckled and her knuckles turned white from their grip on the porcelain sink. What did she expect? You meet a man in the bathroom of a dirty club and let him fuck you - he probably doesn't care much about your feelings. This was stress release, pure and simply. Fueled by alcohol and frustration. If I was the only person to leave this room satisfied, she would just have to go pick up another dude at the bar. Her problem.

     I caught my own reflection and smiled. My dark, coppery hair was mussed and dirty and my eyes were ringed with bruises from the lack of sleep and black from unwashed eyeliner. My skin had gotten so pale that I almost glowed. A sick and sallow glow, though. Nothing ethereal. I bit my lip until it bled and watched the red bubble up and disappear into my mouth, tasting the metallic tang of it. I looked like destruction. I felt like it, too. The grin on the face of the man in the mirror, mercilessly pounding the angry slut bent before him, it was manic. It was excited. It was me.

     I finished quickly, slightly encouraged by the flicker in my eyes and the moaning the woman had tried to bite back. She was ashamed that she had liked me treating her so poorly. I think that was what finally set me off. My condom was off and in the trash and I was zipping my jeans back up when she turned around and handed me a napkin with her phone number smeared across.

     "Call me?" she asked with her eyes wide. She was just a little scared and still turned on. She hadn't orgasmed.

     Without a word, I took the napkin and threw it into the bin, right on top of my used rubber. I wouldn't be calling her or anyone else. She'd served her purpose and he continued presence annoyed the shit out of me.

     "Asshole," she spat.

     "Now you're getting it." I left the room and grabbed my jacket from the knob of the door. I had a few hours left that I could still catch some sleep during, and I was going to need the rest. I had to really put my best foot forward at work and work on my side projects in the downtime. That night might well have been the last of my forays into my favorite, seediest pastime.

     Time to go be an adult. Goddamnit.

     I made my way back to my apartment, skipping the broken bricks in the sidewalk and humming under my breath. I was gonna miss these late nights and early mornings; being bound to the daytime was one of my worst fears. Going full-time at work, though, meant no more sleeping until one and rolling out of bed and onto the train. It meant long hours at a desk, drawing and rendering animations for someone else's ideas.

     How stagnant.

     My phone chirped as I walked up the stairs to my apartment. "Frank Iero..." I murmured, reading the name of the sender of the Facebook message. I didn't know him, the message was simple. He wanted to pay me to draw up tattoo ideas. Simple enough and I could definitely use the money; although, the idea of spending more of my talent on other people's creations was more than a little depressing.

     I clicked on his name and scoped out his page. Fucker was handsome. His smile was bright and happy and the shape of his eyes sat perfectly on his cheekbones. There was a new lip ring on the corner of his mouth and I had the sudden urge to bite it, which made me laugh. He wasn't just some kid, either. Looked like he co-owned a music production studio with a friend of his. I'd heard of the label; that meant he could definitely afford my steep prices.

      _Sounds good. Text me tomorrow and we can set up a time and place to meet._ I signed the note with my number and the initial "G"

     I was suddenly much more sober than I had been, possibly because I was excited about the prospect of a new project, a new job... or maybe it was because of those sharp green eyes looking back from his profile picture. The world seemed a little calmer as I showered and fell into bed, but it wasn't a bad thing. It allowed me to sleep. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gerard's POV. Switching up these patterns on you.
> 
> Updates may be slow as I am balancing several projects at once. Please let me know if this story is something you would like to have take precedence. Thank you.

      **From Frank Iero (9:46 AM):** _Tonight at Starbucks? The one off of Monroe Ave? I can get out of here around four pm, so anytime after that?_

     I had that text message waiting for me during my fourth coffee break of the morning. Motherfucker didn't waste any time, now, did he?

      **To Frank Iero (10:59 AM):** _Yeah, okay. Meet you there at five thirty? I'll bring a sketchbook._

     He replied almost immediately. 

      **From Frank Iero (11:01 AM):** _Excellent! Thanks, man._

 

      The rest of my day drug on mercilessly. The frequent trips to the coffeepot had done nothing to aid me in my hungover state. I was really gonna have to cut the drinking out if I was going to attempt to be a productive member of society. Well, maybe not out... but at least down a little. I sat at my desk and chugged bottled water while I worked on the pieces on my desk. More hours meant more projects and more deadlines. I needed to find a sugar mama or daddy soon; this work shit is for the birds. This wasn't art. It did nothing for my inner peace, except threaten it. 

    When it was finally time for me to leave, I was completely exhausted and considered text this Frank dude back and telling him I had to skip it. God knows all I wanted to do was go home and kill a bottle and go to sleep. Save the bottle part, of course, since I was trying to be a real person, for once. And being an adult meant keeping my meetings, I guessed. Fuck.

     I arrived at the coffee shop about ten minutes early so I ordered a triple shot in the dark with Splenda and sat in a comfy looking chair, mindlessly sketching a Nosferatu type vampire emerging from his coffin. I'd done this similar sketch maybe a hundred times.. it wasn't anything particularly meaningful; it was just to keep my hands and mind busy.  Maybe too busy, because I wasn't really sure how much time had elapsed when I heard someone clear their throat pointedly beside my table. 

     "Uh. Hi. Gerard, right? I'm Frank." The guy looked nervous, but I could only classify his shy smile as sweet. I tried my best to return the smile in a non-threatening way. My usual lazy grin could only be described as wolfish. I gestured to the empty seat across the table. 

     "That's me. Have a seat?" Frank sat and curled his hands around his paper cup, casting glances between the sketchbook I was just closing, his cup, and my eyes. He looked like he was about to have an excited anxiety attack. "Why are you so nervous? I'm not a blind date." I let out a laugh and took a long pull from my rapidly cooling coffee as Frank blushed. He probably wasn't straight. Straight guys would likely have laughed my comment off, or gotten offended. Frank blushed and looked back down. Cute. 

     "I know. I'm just... ah. Not used to the whole tattoo scene. I don't even really have any solid ideas about specifics. What I want? I guess I'm not really sure how to go about this... ah... meeting," he replied brokenly. So he wasn't twitchy about meeting me, he was nervous about deciding on ink. Fascinating. 

     "Well. Let's start with the basics. Where do you want this tattoo? Can you give me an idea of the size?" I flipped to a clean page in a tiny lined notebook, ready to take notes. 

     "Tattoos."

     "Excuse me?" I hadn't caught the necessary clarification. 

     "Tattoos. Plural. Multiple. I want them everywhere in varying sizes and shapes. I don't even have a unifying theme. I just know that I want them to be designed by the same artist. Like a walking canvas." He looked down again, hearing the unorthodox request out loud must have made him realize how it sounded.

     "Most people choose tattoos because they have meaning or they're beautiful. You just want me to illustrate you? Make you into a canvas?" I was intrigued. I wasn't going to be stuck doing mindless sketches of inspirational scenes.... I was going to be given some kind of artistic license. "Well. I'm sold. What made you decided to contact me?" 

     Frank put one hand behind his head and nervously scratched his neck. "Your portfolio online? It was interesting. Not everything was pretty or perfect. Some of it was downright unattractive, but your work felt real. Does that make any sense? I mean. If you're in, we can talk a little? Get to know each other? Then you come up with whatever. I'll pay you per individual piece." 

     I could have kissed him. That was the exact right thing to say to me, and he didn't even know it. The dread that I was being sucked into a commercial existence for the rest of my life was eased a little bit. There was someone... at least one person... who saw past clean lines and accurate colors and perfect profiles. He found substance in my work. "Yeah. I'm in." My mind was already studying the shape of his body and noting the color of his skin. My canvas was already sort of beautiful. "So tell me about you. Family?  Job? Influences? Taste in music, movies... you obviously have an amazing eye for visual arts." 

     There is was: that faint rosy tinge in his cheeks. I wondered idly where else that color popped up. It was gorgeous. Too much so. Frank was already speaking animatedly about his job and how much he loved it. I shook the darkening thoughts from my head and picked up a pen to take notes, switching to green midway through when I realized I was sketching his eyes in the margins instead. 

     He wasn't dangerous. But he might have been dangerous to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe you've noticed, but I don't have a beta. And I don't catch all my mistakes. 
> 
> Maybe take note that I also don't care. 
> 
> But if something is so horrendously butchered that you can't help but stare at it until it goes away, let me know. I shall correct major errors.


End file.
